Swing Life Away - Chapter 3 (CPOV)
His week went by as it usually did, slow and yet all too fast. He stayed as long as he thought was safe after his shift supposedly ended. No one could tell him otherwise, he'd opened and owned the garage himself. So he was allowed to stay as long as he felt necessary. Unfortunately, he was just trying to keep from going home. Time seemed stuck at a snails pace there. And it didn't help he was alone with his thoughts there. He hated his thoughts, and he refused to listen to them. Refused to give them a time of day. Maybe he'd work more on finishing those cupboards over the washer and dryer. They needed a stain or some sort of paint to cover them at least. Made he'd pick up more tiles, and finish that spot in the living room. It felt odd underneath the throw rug he'd covered it with.
He finally made himself go to the hardware store, of course it was Friday by then and he had lost most drive to want to work on his unfinished projects in his home. And he didn't even consider starting another, as he strolled the aisles looking at paint, hinges, tiles and various other objects. Letting out a loud gust of air, he simply left the store without a purchase. He drove through a nearby McDonald's, and ordered himself whatever number fell from his mouth first. He frowned as he realized it'd been a chicken sandwich. He just shrugged and ate it, along with every last fry before he even made it home. It was still light out when he got home, so instead of trapping himself inside, he grabbed a beer and sat on the front steps. Flicking the outdoor radio onto some rock station, keeping the volume low, he just zoned out. Staring at the pathway leading away from his house. How did life become reduced to just sitting on your front porch for entertainment? Grunting, he took a drink from his beer, at least he was getting older.
He watched as some kids came laughing by, riding their bikes recklessly and without helmets. When the hell was summer over? He was sick of seeing happy kids doing reckless shit right within view of his front yard. Looking at his watch, he grimaced, it wasn't even four in the afternoon yet. He'd knocked off work way earlier than usual, and he couldn't remember why he had now. Groaning, he ran a hand through his hair, tugging and pulling his hair as his hand made its way towards the tips, before losing all hold of it. He heard his phone ring inside, at least four times. There wasn't enough time in between for someone to have left a message each time. However, the fifth time, he suspected they'd left one. As the phone didn't ring a sixth time. He just shrugged his shoulders, he'd check it later.. well, maybe.
He sort of lost track of Friday, not entirely sure when it had ended and faded into Saturday. He did find himself face down in his sofa the next morning. Unable and unwanting to move, he could feel the hangover creeping up and threatening to fully grip him the moment he moved. Obviously he'd gotten a bit carried away with the beers lost night and had himself a mini party in his own home. Only hours he finally managed to force himself up, downing three glasses of water, and five Advil before taking a scalding shower. The day looked long and daunting, and he wasn't looking forward to another day of trying to find something to do. Ignoring his answering machine flashing a bright red one at him, he headed out and to the nearest junkyard. Finding the old, junkiest car he could. It was hard to be sure if it had ever actually even been a car.
With the distraction parked neatly in his garage, and the door now shut. He began to work, the large red toolbox pulled up and near enough he could reach out and grab any tool. He turned the radio on in there, a bit louder than the night before and began to work. This time his drink of choice being one of the many energy drinks he'd stopped at the gas station on the way home and purchased. He mainly spent Saturday doing a once over, seeing what to start first and make a grease and oil stained list of the parts. Sunday was spent getting some of said parts, from nearby shops and junkyards. The parts now littered the floor, joining random tools and empty AMP cans. The distraction moved him through Sunday, faster than he'd imagined. After a quick shower, he'd fallen into bed, ready to spend his time at work the next rest of the week. Working on other peoples cars and solving there problems. At least he could solve someones problems.
The week went by quicker than he'd imagined. His time spent at work made most of the day fly by. And the project in the garage passed the evening. His dinner consisted of any pizza, fast food or form of take out he manged to get during the time he realized he was hungry. The answering machine slowly accumulated unheard messages. And he ignored the red number as it grew. By the following Saturday, the number was persistently flashing fifteen, but he couldn't be bothered to listen. Telling himself that was just too many messages to listen to now. Maybe he just knew something wasn't right about someone so desperate to reach him. No one ever called him that much, let alone left that many messages. But he'd long sense forgotten what that feeling in the pit of your stomach meant.
Monday, he left work earlier than usual, he was excited to get home. He was beginning to make real progress with the cars body. And he wanted extra time to work on it that day. It was just after one as he began to walk up his drive, however, he froze in his tracks. A car he didn't know was parked on the curb and a woman who was wearing a rather, serious looking suit appeared to be frantically knocking on his door. While trying to peer through the window over the porch. He knew it was hopeless, the windows were all covered with curtains. However, before he could run, a spot of gravel crunched particularly loud under his foot, alerting her to his presence.
She turned and immediately relaxed as she spotted who she was clearly looking for. Her name tag announced her name and where she worked. But the world seemed to be blurring and twisting in an odd way. The feeling in the pit of his stomach seemed to be manifesting itself into a form of acid, causing his mind to warp and twist.
He vaguely remembered her name, and introducing himself. Perhaps he'd just mumbled, cause she gave him an odd look not long after. She kept talking after that, he caught words, bits and pieces. He got the jist of the news, and he merely nodded if she asked if he understood. She nodded, left him with a folder, with all the information in it apparently. With a final word or two, she said her goodbye and walked to her car. He could feel her eyes watching him from his car. He would in her position too, he hadn't moved the whole conversation and was still stock still. Finally, he heard her call another goodbye and get into her car. He listened as her tires skid a bit on the wet concrete, before they disappeared into the afternoon forever.
Once he'd made it to his front steps, he only remembered vague, snippets of her long explanation.
"You're an impossible man to reach."
"There were no survivors."
"He's alone in the world."
"Have a good day Chest-.. er, Cheshire, sir."
In less than two hours time, he had somehow just acquired a child. Not like he'd won the lottery, as morbid of a thought as that was. Apparently his girlfriend from a time that seemed like forever ago, had failed to mention she'd been pregnant. Failed to mention she'd stopped the pill. Failed to let him know his son was nearly eight years old. And just like that, he was now the only parent the boy had in the world. The boy who'd been named Trent at birth, was sitting in foster care, waiting for his only parent to come pick him up and take him home. A boy who'd just a month ago lost his mother to a drunk driving accident. A boy who was at risk of being permanently in the Foster system, since Cheshire had been such a 'hard man to reach'.
The day faded slowly to the night, he gripped the folder in his hand tighter than necessary. Wrinkling the papers inside no doubt. The address to the place he could go tomorrow and get his son. A picture of his son, which he'd refused to look at. As well as some further information of how to get a hold of anyone if he had any questions. He had plenty of them. How could they do this? Why did he have to take care of the kid? Why had she been such an irresponsible bitch? How the hell was he going to do this? He knew he couldn't leave the poor kid in the foster home, he'd never do that. Those were never pleasant memories growing up. But he doubted the kid living with his 'dad' was gonna be much better. Groaning, he ran his hand through and tugged at his hair again. He finally seemed to register he was still sitting outside, on his front porch. And that sometime ago it had gone dark and was lightly raining around him.
He heaved himself to his feet slowly, sighing heavily and looking down his empty driveway. Looking where her car had been earlier, of course the spot was empty now. She'd lingered when she left, obviously she was worried about Cheshire. He snorted, he hated when people 'worried' about him. He was a grown man, he served in the Navy for crying out loud. He didn't need people to "worry" about him. Snorting, he stepped inside, shaking the light mist from his hair, which was standing unruly from his tugging at it. He looked around his entryway, his house was big enough for two, there was no doubt. But was it even livable for a young kid? I mean, if he remembered right, the poor kid was only seven years old. Would this be a seven year old friendly home? Then again, how bad were seven year old kids? Didn't they sort of, grow up by that age? Fuck, he had no god damn idea. This was going to be harder than he thought.
He went into the kitchen, tossing the papers onto the island counter, and choosing to look anywhere but at them. Tugging at his hair again, he looked around his kitchen. He had food in this place, he just never, made it. He hated to admit, but he couldn't really cook to save his life. Groaning, he leaned against the counter, staring at the manila folder taunting him from the island. The kid was seven, he was still in school. He'd have to register him with the local elementary. Seven was too young to stay home alone wasn't it? Well shit, this made things hard. He promptly went to work at six am every morning, not returning till sometime in the evening. How the hell would he be able to work with some, kid needing constant supervision?
He briefly considered his old high school buddy and near-sister. But then, she worked half the week herself. So he'd still be without a babysitter those days. And he didn't want to, inconvenience Luna. Which left him right back at negative square one. Stuck with a young kid who'd need to be fed, watched and possibly even dressed for school each day. Growling, he pushed the folder off the island and left the kitchen promptly without turning the light off. Life just never wanted to work for him. He was still surprised that this realization always surprised him. He'd already accepted this fact before he'd even hit high school really.
Flopping onto the sofa, he stared at the throw rug, his eyes pinched into a glare. He left the TV off, just letting his thoughts consume him for the time being. He'd have to just call in tomorrow and tell them he wouldn't be there the rest of this week. Till he could figure out what to do with his new, kid. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temples, the words just didn't feel right. He shouldn't have a kid, he isn't father material. Hell, he wasn't even boyfriend material anymore. Opening his eyes finally, he looked up and noticed the room had gotten darker. He wasn't sure was time it was and he really didn't care anymore. He was too exhausted to care about something as unimportant was the time. Getting up, he moved into the kitchen slowly. The papers still lay scattered under the bright overhead lights. He knelt down to scoop up the address the worker had left him. He didn't like it, but he'd have to pick his kid up sooner or later. The sooner, the better, so he could figure out just what he'd need to do.
Just before he turned to leave the kitchen, his eyes caught sight of something. His son's picture had fallen off on it's own and landed face side up. Unable to ignore it now staring at him, he slowly scooped the photo up, looking at it with a blank face. He wasn't a genetics expert, but he could see him in the poor kids very face. He had the same nose shape, minus the bump from when Cheshire had gotten in a fight and didn't let his nose heal well. The had the same almond shape eyes, small, but slightly tilted. His eyes were a muddier shade of brown, he could see the 'red' in them. But his mothers blue eyes were fighting to take over, swirling them into an odd shade that was entrancing. He had the same jaw as his dad, but his lips were definitely his moms, small with more bottom than top lip. And the hair, it wasn't the right shade, it was confused between a caramel and a black, but it looked good. He felt something inside him twinge, something pull and prod. Clenching his eyes and steadying his jaw, he set the photo on the counter. Swiftly leaving the kitchen, while turning the light off on his way out.
Next Chapter: Chapter 4